


Shattered

by Fiction_Addiction



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Historical Hetalia, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:41:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiction_Addiction/pseuds/Fiction_Addiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pen scratched ink onto paper and East Germany was lashed and bound to his body as his little brother screamed, again and again, their blood fusing together and exploding into a million scarlet stained shards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered

Prussia- No. Not Prussia. Not anymore. He had been Prussia, _once_. But even that was ripped away from him, his people and his land were gone, and he was suddenly shoved into a new role. It was like his entire being had been torn away from him, changed, and  _forced_ back into a shell of the nation he used to be.

 

He felt it as he signed his death against his will, as his nation escaped from him in a cold breath. The Kingdom of Prussia cut all ties with Gilbert Beildschmidt, like a puppeteer slicing away the strings of his toy. His land- _his nation, his people, his life_ \- it all slipped away like smoke through his fingers.

 

He used to have red eyes. When he was Prussia, his eyes were a crimson color, just like the blood he craved. When the German Democratic Republic had been forced into his lifeless husk, something changed. Something was- _off_.

 

His eyes lost their glitter. They did not shine like rubies, nor did they shimmer like garnet. They were blank. Empty. Something was wrong. Gilbert Beildschmidt rejected the German Democratic Republic.

 

He wasn’t supposed to be alive. It wasn’t right.

 

Yet, somehow, he was there. A pen scratched ink onto paper and East Germany was lashed and bound to his body as his little brother screamed, again and again, their blood fusing together and exploding into a million _scarlet stained shards_.

 

He knew Germany had done it to keep him alive. Ah, no- Ludwig wasn’t Germany. Ludwig was West Germany. Gilbert … _Gilbert was East Germany._

 

Ludwig tore himself apart to keep Gilbert alive.

 

His brother had ripped himself into two so that Gilbert could live. So that Gilbert could breathe. He was simply an extension to Ludwig, some kind of _twisted parasite_ that lived only as his brother thrived.

 

Gilbert was disgusted with himself.

 

It made him sick inside to know what Ludwig had done for him. Gilbert hated himself for it. It was like something dead had crawled past his lips and slid into his stomach, festering away at his insides and gnawing at his flesh.

 

It was terrible. Horrifying.

 

Gilbert lived with it. He lived with the fact that he meant nothing, that the days locked up in the metaphorical dungeon of the Soviet states meant that his life didn’t matter. He was East Germany, but the ugly gunmetal shackles of duty chained him to his new land as he signed papers against his will.

 

He didn't want this life. This body, this ... thing he had become, it was dirty. _Tainted_. Not fit to live.

 

It was revolting.

 

He was never physically hurt. There were no scars on his body. His skin was porcelain pale, only marred by dust and grime. _Showers were hard to come by_ , he chuckled grimly to himself.

 

But no- it was his mind that suffered. There were knives dragged across his insides, spilling invisible blood and leaving scars that _never showed_.

 

He was broken from the inside. The only thing keeping him alive were the cold fingers of his land squeezing around his heart and pouring its breath into his lungs.

 

He hated how the tears streaked down his dirt-grimed face. He hated every night, every night being forced further away from his brother and away from his land and his friends.

 

He hated it. He didn't want to live.

 

He didn't want to live this life stained with dirt and disease and war and blood and death and  _hopelessness_.

 

He didn't want it.

 

But he was forced to keep it. He was forced to keep the bad as every good was sucked from his life, as an invisible hand pulled the happiest memories from his very mind and twisted them around, _demented_ them, and shoved them back in.

 

Gilbert had lost whatever little color he had. Platinum blond hair became a washed grey, pale skin turned paper white, and shining crimson became faded vermilion. His body lost its lean muscle, his ribs jutting out from his chest and his cheekbones and collarbones cutting through his face and neck.

 

Then the wall came tumbling down in a cloud of dust and everything was alright again because he could see- _he could see!_

 

His brother was right next to him. His brother ... West Germany was okay. Ludwig was _okay_.

 

He was alive. His brother was alive. And it didn't even matter when Russia gave him a solemn pat on the back that was more like a shove and America's calculating eyes searched the depths of his heart.

 

He collapsed into his brother's arms, knowing that he wasn't alone- _no matter what the voices said_ \- he was never alone.

 

The days after that, he healed. Germany was formally reunited, and Ludwig was officially the Federal Republic of Germany.

 

East Germany was gone, but he healed.

 

His dull grey hair shone silver at times, and his eyes sparkled when he smiled.

 

He traveled everywhere, learning about all the countries and cultures, fashioning himself and identity that was long gone with his land. He no longer had his own nation, but he had a body. _He had time._

 

Ludwig gave Gilbert his precious time, and Gilbert treasured it.

 

He was no longer the Teutonic Knights, nor was he the Kingdom of Prussia. He was a part of Germany, part a life he shared with his brother and countless other people and animals and trees and rivers and plants.

 

_He was, he is, and he will be._

 

And that's all that mattered to him.


End file.
